


Ratios and Relevance

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Embedded Video, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You are being watched. </i>
</p><p> </p><p><i>The government has a secret system, a machine that spies on you every hour of every day. </i> </p><p> <i>I know because I built it.</i></p><p>For the MI6 Cafe Teamwork Challenge 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ratios and Relevance

**Author's Note:**

> For the MI6 Cafe Teamwork Challenge, I worked with the amazingly talented [Wyomingnot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wyomingnot/profile). We both love the show _Person of Interest_ and thought it would be fun to make a 00Q AU. No previous knowledge of the show is necessary. 
> 
> Before you begin, make sure to watch [wyomingnot's fantastic video!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8005900)

_When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become something different. Something better._

When Bond sleeps, he is in a sunny hotel room in Venice with her, kissing the bare shelf of her shoulder as she laughs. Sometimes he can’t remember the colour of her eyes or the exact shade of her hair, but he remembers her laugh, the smell of her skin, the softness of her lips. He remembers how happy he’d been, in that moment with her, bathed in golden sunlight.

_When that person is taken from you…_

But when Bond wakes, there is no sunlight. He is not in Venice, and he never will be in Venice again. Not when she isn’t there and will never be there again.

_What do you become then?_

**00Q00Q00Q**

London is thrumming with movement and sound and life.

There are cars and trains and planes and hundreds of thousands of people all going about their lives. It’s easy to get lost in it, to blend into the crowd, to go unnoticed and unseen. For someone like James Bond, it’s the perfect place to disappear.

It hadn’t always been this way. Bond used to love London’s energy, its light and music. He used to ache for the familiar territory, the heartbeat of _home_ after so long away. But now London is something different to him.

Something else.

But he’s different too. All those years of spying for Queen and Country, those countless missions to protect the Crown’s interests, all that blood on his hands, and what did it all amount to? Nothing except for a betrayal of the worst kind, being shot off a bridge in Istanbul by his own people and left for dead.

Now Bond’s nothing more than dead man wandering aimlessly around the place that used to give him so much life. He’s got nothing: no flat, no money, no papers, nowhere to go. All he’s got is an old bullet wound in his shoulder that aches and aches and aches and won’t stop until he does.

So Bond waits for death. He doesn’t eat, barely sleeps, and with the winter coming, he hopes it won’t be much longer. The nights are the worst, though: dark and seemingly endless; tempting. To pass the time, he takes to riding the Tube. He’s figured out ways to get through the wicket at a few stations, so no matter where he is, he can usually catch a train on the Central or Victoria line and ride it until service ends.

It helps make things easier sometimes. The noise, the movement. It makes him feel like he’s going somewhere when he’s going nowhere at all. There’s no point to it anymore. Not after what had happened to him and his team in Turkey. Not after coming back to London for his stash kit that held the burner phone he kept to stay in touch with her, that held voicemail after voicemail begging him to come see her. Not after going to see her and finding out she’d died two months ago, when he’d been drinking himself to death on a beach in Fethiye instead of coming back.

She might still be alive if he’d come back right away. He hadn’t died, his ties to MI6 had finally been severed...he should have run to her immediately, forced her to divorce the husband she hated, and run away with her. If he had, maybe she’d still be alive…she might still be alive if he’d have stayed when she asked him...

“Vesper…”

Her name comes unbidden, and despite his agony, Bond doesn’t cry. There’s no use in crying, there never has been.

But his voice has captured the attention of some fellow passengers. There are five of them, all chavs, and they look like they’re itching for an excuse to fight. Their leader comes up and gets in his face, starts shouting all sorts of abuse about the homeless. He then flashes the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, threatens that he’s going to use Bond for target practice. His friends all laugh, but Bond doesn’t react. He just lets it all wash over him, because he honestly doesn’t care, but then the chav reaches for Bond’s mobile phone.

And Bond punches him directly in the face.

It’s instinctual, because he won’t let anyone touch the phone. It’s the last bit of Vesper that he has, and he’s not going to let anyone take it away from him.

And although the punch had been only a quarter of his usual strength, what with living rough and trying to starve himself to death, the kid goes flying with the force of it. It prompts his friends to step in, forces Bond’s hand to fight, and by the time the doors open at the next stop, all five of them are on the ground writhing in pain.

Bond decides that it’s a good time to leave, but before he can, there’s an officer in front of him.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

They ask him for his name, so Bond gives them one that isn’t his. They ask questions about the incident, so Bond answers in the shortest words he can think of. They know he’s avoiding something, they’re not complete idiots. But after two hours, Bond’s not budging on his story and he can tell that they want to charge him with something so they can print him and find out the truth. But they can’t, not when he’d been defending himself against five men with illegal weapons.

He’s the victim, after all.

They leave him alone in a room he can easily escape from, but Bond stays put. They’ve seen his face now, so it’s good to just play along until they can’t find any other reasons to keep him.

An hour later, they have the CCTV footage from the Tube. It shows him throwing the first punch, then taking down all five men without taking a single hit. A new round of questioning begins, but Bond won’t talk.

That’s when they send her in.

She’s nothing short of beautiful. Brown skin and hair and eyes all kissed through with gold. But she’s not soft, not at all. Bond sees the military in her stride right away.

“So, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” She asks.

Bond doesn’t say anything. She smiles, sits on the edge of the desk like she’s a friend. Bond immediately knows that she had been military, most likely an interrogator. Her body language seems natural, but she’s been trained. And very well.

“You’re definitely military, but not army,” she continues. “I’m guessing Special Forces.”

Bond doesn’t answer, clenching his fist round the mobile in his pocket.

“It’s hard readjusting to civilian life,” she says. “I know that. I did two tours in Iraq. Feels like I never left it behind.”

She leans close to him.

“I see a lot of soldiers come back and have a hard time of things...most of the time they just need a little help.”

Bond doesn’t look at her, focusing on the door straight ahead.

“Do you need some help?” she asks. “There are resources, you know. Nearby, free of charge...they could even set you up with bedsit and maybe a small stipend--”

“No, thanks,” Bond says.

Before she even has the chance to look offended, the door opens, and a man in a nice suit appears.

“Is my client under arrest?” He asks.

“Your _client_?” she asks, with such incredulity that Bond almost feels offended. Sure he may not be able to afford new socks, let alone a fancy lawyer, but it stings all the same.

“Yes. My client,” the man says. “Is he under arrest or is he free to go?”

She holds up her hands.

“He’s free to go,” she says.

The lawyer moves to the hallway outside the interrogation room and waits for Bond, but he’s not even halfway to the door when the woman puts her hand on his arm gently.

“Hey,” she says, and then rummages in her pocket. She pulls out a business card and twenty quid and puts both into his hand. “If you ever need anything, call me.”

Bond doesn’t nod or thank her, but he does take the card and cash on his way. He glances at the name on the card before he puts it into his pocket: _Eve Moneypenny_. Now there’s a name he isn’t likely to forget any time soon.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Out of all the places to end up, Bond never expected it to be the South Bank at about six in the morning.

But that's where the silent lawyer drops him off before speeding away. It’s early, but there are people out: a few joggers, a couple of dog walkers, some early commuters and late shift workers trading places. They all avoid looking at his shabby appearance, his unkempt hair and dirty beard.

But there is one person looking at him. There’s no judgement or pity or disgust in his gaze. He’s just looking, and really looking, as if he knows all of Bond’s hopes and dreams and fears without ever having met him before. It should terrify him, but there’s something about him that makes Bond draw closer without knowing why.

“I’m not here to kill you,” says the boy, with a reassuring smile.

Closer now, Bond sees that he’s not really a boy, though his looks are quite youthful. His wavy brunet hair and clunky glasses gave him the look of a man in in his early twenties, and the fact that he’s all but drowning in an oversized anorak does not help the matter. But there’s something aged in his eyes, around his mouth, as if he’s seen more than his fair share of terrible things.

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Q.”

“Q?” Bond says, and the man gives a stiff nod. There’s something wrong with his neck, his posture, but Bond’s not quite sure what. A car accident, perhaps. Birth defect, even. It’s hard to say.

“Not my real name, as you’ve deduced.”

“It’s not even a name,” Bond says.

“That never mattered in your previous line of work, did it, Double-Oh Seven?”

Bond feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the whisper of his call sign. No one could know.

No one.

“I’m not going to give you away,” Q says, as if sensing Bond’s discomfort. “I called you here because I think we could develop a...mutually beneficial arrangement.”

The words _mutually beneficial arrangement_ don’t quite sit right with Bond. Nothing has ever been a mutually beneficial arrangement. It’s always been a job. Kill this person, torture that person, come back and do it all over again. But there had been no mutual benefit. He never did those things because he liked them. He did them because he had to. And something about the way Q looks at him tells Bond that he knows that, which makes him feel vulnerable and ashamed and angry.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Bond says, because it’s true. He’s not a nice man. He could easily break this boy in half with his bare hands. But Q doesn’t seem afraid at all, despite his waifish stature. In fact, Q gives him a soft smile that’s almost reassuring.

“I know you used to work for MI6. I know about the doubts you began to have about that work, about what they asked you to do, to sacrifice.”

Bond looks away, but Q continues.

“I know that the government, along with everyone else, thinks you’re dead. I know you’ve spent the last couple months trying to drink yourself to death.”

Then Q’s voice becomes a little softer:

“I know you’re contemplating a more efficient way to do it.”

Bond closes his eyes and breathes, because he doesn’t know what else to do. How can Q know? How can he know that Bond’s been thinking about rooftop ledges and the highest bridges in London?

“So you understand now. Knowledge isn’t my problem. Doing something with that knowledge, well, that’s where you’d come in. See, I don’t think you need a psychiatrist or therapy.”

Q’s smile is enigmatic, and Bond’s drawn to him without knowing why.

“I think you need a job.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

The car comes back and drives into the heart of the city, past all the buses and shops and people. They’re stopped at a crossing walk when Q taps his finger on the glass.

“Did you know that there are over 8 million people living in this city?” Q says, not asks, and Bond’s smart enough to know a rhetorical question when it’s asked. He stays silent, and Q smiles, as if he appreciates Bond’s intuition. “A person is murdered in London every 17 hours. By the end of the day, one of these people will be gone.”

For some reason, it makes Bond think of Vesper, of the accident photos he can’t burn from his mind: the mangled remains of her car, the photo of a pale hand covered in blood, the autopsy x-rays of her neck, broken in three places from the force of impact.

“Bad things happen everyday. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Q’s eyes shift from the window to him, and Bond can’t breathe for just how _green_ they are.

“What if you could?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if you could stop some of the bad things from happening? Not the things that happen in the heat of the moment, of course... But there are so many crimes that are premeditated. They’re planned days, sometimes weeks in advance. What if you could stop those?”

“I’d say it’s impossible. You couldn’t know that.”

Q looks out the window again.

“I’ve got a list,” he says.

“A list?” Bond repeats.

“Yes.”

“From where? Who?”

“It’s irrelevant,” Q says, and winces, as if something hurt him to say that. But then he continues: “All you need to know is that I have a list of people who are going to be in very bad situations. Murders, kidnappings...most of the people on my list don’t even know something bad is going to happen to them. They’re just...ordinary people...going about their lives.”

The car pulls to the kerb and throws on the emergencies, and Bond tenses as Q reaches into his satchel. But there isn’t a weapon, only a manilla envelope, very similar to the ones Bond used to receive at Six.

Q hands it to him, and Bond opens it more out of habit than anything else. There’s a black and white photo of a woman with long hair. She’s dressed well. Smiling. The photo had definitely been taken without her knowledge.

“Her name is Rachel Hansen and her name is at the top of my list. I’m not sure what’s going to happen to her or what her role in it is. She may be the victim or the perpetrator, all I know is that she’s somehow involved.”

Q taps gently on the glass, and Bond looks up from the folder, just in time to see Rachel Hansen pass by their car. She’s texting on her mobile. She doesn’t even notice them watching her.

“I want you to follow her and figure out what’s going to happen. Then stop it from happening.”

Bond thinks about laughing, but he can’t quite manage it. He’d been drawn to Q for all the wrong reasons. It makes his stomach churn to realise it. Trouble always attracts trouble.

“So what do you think?” Q asks.

“I think you’re a bored rich kid stalking that poor woman because you feel entitled to her. Maybe she was your teacher or someone you rode with once in a lift. Either way, I’m done.”

Bond drops the folder on the seat and lets himself out of the car.

No one stops him, and he doesn’t look back.

**00Q00Q00Q**

When Bond sleeps that night, he’s heavy under the influence of twenty quid of whiskey, and Venice comes to him with a rush of sunlight. He and Vesper are in bed, laughing in the tangle of sheets around their legs. There are room service trays on the floor, stacked high with champagne glasses and the remains of chocolate covered fruits. The room smells of fresh flowers and her hair smells like honeysuckle and it might just be heaven if he could _stay_.

But he’s not dead, not yet, and reality comes crashing back at the shrill sound of a telephone ringing. It’s disconcerting because the phone he has never rings, and even more disorienting when he opens his eyes and he’s not in the back alley he’d holed up the previous evening.

It’s a nice hotel, the sort that Bond would have stayed in when he went on missions for Six. Everything is tastefully neutral, clean, and Bond can’t remember for the life of him how he’d arrived here. But judging from the taste in his mouth, the way his head feels, and the fact that his left hand is zip-tied to the headboard, Bond doesn’t doubt he’d been drugged.

The phone rings again, and Bond awkwardly reaches for it with his free hand. He doesn’t offer a greeting to whomever his captor may be, just waits and listens for the demands. But the voice on the other end of the line is not what he expected. There’s no smugness, no hostility, just that pleasantly succinct, familiar voice of the man he’d walked away from the previous day. It makes Bond uneasy. He knew haughty and angry, knew how to deal with unstable and unhinged, but pleasant? That makes him nervous.

Because people who didn't fit into moulds were unpredictable, and unpredictable meant dangerous.

“You need to understand something, Mr. Bond,” Q begins. “The information I have is incomplete, but it’s never wrong. I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but I need you to truly understand. I need you to know what it would be like to be forced to listen to someone get murdered and not be able to do anything about it.”

Q’s voice cuts out and the line goes dead, just as Bond hears a terrible scream from the room next to his. It’s a woman, obviously terrified, and a man, shouting abuse at her. There’s the sound of overturning furniture, and the woman’s screams become louder. Bond can’t believe it. Did that man hire someone to kill a woman to force Bond into working for him?

“You sick fuck,” Bond growls, expertly dislocating his thumb to wiggle out of the zip tie that held him captive. There’s no way he’d allow someone to get hurt, especially because of him.

In a moment, he’s off the bed and throwing open the door that joins his room to the next. His side is unlocked, but their side isn’t. The woman screams again, and Bond takes a running start at the door, hitting it with his shoulder. It bursts open under his force, and Bond gracelessly falls into the next room, seeing stars at the pain from the old bullet wound in his clavicle. But he pushes himself up, immediately in a stance to take on whatever he might encounter.

But the room is quiet. There isn’t anyone screaming anymore and there’s no destruction of any kind. In fact, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the room at all, save for the bespectacled man in the chair next to the window. On the coffee table in front of him, there is a steaming cup of tea and an open government grade case filled with telephone tapping equipment and speakers.

"I’m afraid you're too late. This recording is about three years old now. A woman murdered in this room by her son...for the inheritance.”

As Q says this, he holds up the tablet that had been on his lap, showing Bond the corresponding Guardian headline. Then he sets the tablet down on the table next to his tea and stands up with a sigh.

“You were too late for her,” Q says, but not unkindly. In fact, he sounds more empathetic than anything. “Just like you were too late for your friend Vesper. You were halfway around the world when she was killed.”

Bond reacts before he can stop himself, grabbing Q by the front of his ugly cardigan to shove him up against the nearest wall.

“What the hell do you know about any of it?”

Q is very small under his hand, his thin neck so breakable, all the more so when he’s trembling like a little bird. But his words are stronger than his body; they do not waver when he says:

“It's the truth.”

Bond looks at Q, really looks, and for a man shrouded in secrets, his eyes are terribly open and honest. Marginally, Bond loosens his grip around Q’s throat.

“Everyone you’ve ever known has lied to you,” Q continues softly, never breaking eye contact with Bond, “but I never will.”

Bond lets him go, because he can’t bear to have Q look at him anymore.

“Why?”

“Blame my moral compass.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Q rubbing at his neck. Bond turns away before he can let his conscience get the better of him.

“No, I meant...why me?” Bond asks.

“Because... I think all you ever wanted to do was protect people.”

It strikes Bond a little too close to the part of him he’d tried so hard to hide away, sequester in some corner of himself where no one could exploit it. But they had ways of finding those secret desires, using them for their own means: the Navy, SIS, the Double-Oh Programme. All of those people preying on his desperate desire to _protect_... and what had he become because of it?

A monster.

Bond runs a hand over his face.

“I’ve killed people.”

“But not because you enjoy it.”

Bond sits.

“No,” Bond admits.

Q sits down in the seat across from him, his motions stiff, as if with pain, and Bond feels a surge of guilt for having manhandled him.

“You don’t even like to hurt people,” Q says, not asks, and Bond looks up at him.

“How can you know?”

Q smiles a bit sadly, and there’s a feeling of camaraderie there, as if they’re fighting the same war together.

“Monsters feel no guilt, Mr. Bond.”

Something about the tone of Q’s voice makes it hard to look at him, so Bond drops his gaze to the item on the table between them and tries for a different topic of conversation.

“This is a telephone tap recording device. Government grade.”

Bond looks at Q’s cardigan, then at his Doc Martens.

“But you’re not government.”

“I'm not,” Q says, and his enigmatic smile is back. “I guess you could call me a concerned third party.”

Bond looks down at the tapes on the reel. There is a marker that reads **EVIDENCE TAPE 0039287A** on the inside spool. Bond touches it with his finger. He can still hear her screaming for help.

Help that never came.

“You couldn't have saved this woman,” Q says softly. “Or your friend. But you could have if you'd known in time. And that's what I'm offering you: a chance _to be there in time_.”

Q picks up his tablet from the coffee table, and then hands it to Bond. Rachel Hansen’s face stares back at him.

“It’s not too late for her.”

Bond knows there’s no way he can say no, and Q must know it too, because when he smiles, it reaches his eyes.

“Shall we get started?”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond takes his first shower in weeks.

He stays until the water runs cold, then steps out of the spray, shivering into the embrace of a warm, plush hotel towel. Once dry, Bond sees that there’s a shaving kit on the sink, so he makes sure to take special care with himself in this regard. The scraggly, dirty beard is stripped away, revealing a smooth jaw, a strong chin, the lips that people in another life had always remarked upon as _handsome_.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, Bond feels like he’s looking at a ghost. He never thought he’d see this James Bond again, not after everything that had happened. But here he is, blue eyes alive and staring back at him with a newfound purpose. Protecting people.

He wonders if he could get it right this time.

He rubs at the wound on his shoulder, trying not to think about MI6’s betrayal, about Vesper’s death. Instead, he focuses on the clean clothes laid out for him on the sink. They’re his size and all brand new, but freshly laundered and pressed, smelling cleaner than anything Bond can remember in recent memory. Sleeping in alleyways and parks does that to a person, he supposes, and he spends an unhealthy amount of time smelling the articles one by one before putting them on.

Once he’s dressed and presentable, Bond exits the bathroom and walks, barefooted, out into the living area.

Q is still in his chair, looking at his tablet.

“Have something to eat, Mr. Bond,” Q says, indicating the cart near the door.

“You called room service?” Bond asks, going over to investigate the food.

It’s nothing short of immaculate: warm croissants and scones, chilled meats and cheeses, vibrant fruits, hot plates of eggs and bacon and sausage. Bond’s mouth waters at the sight. Even living rough, Bond hadn’t been hungry. After everything that had happened, he never thought he’d ever find his appetite again. But the redness of the strawberries is so enticing and the butter glistening on the croissants is like a siren’s song. And there is coffee. Deep, dark roast coffee that smells heavenly…

Bond can’t resist, helping himself to a portion that could easily feed three and a half men. Q doesn’t comment, even when Bond sits down on the floor next to the coffee table and begins eating with a vigour he hasn’t had in ages.

“Can’t fight crime on an empty stomach,” is all Q says.

“Can’t fight crime without shoes, either,” Bond says, in between bites of bacon.

Q looks over his tablet and Bond wiggles his toes at him. He goes back to his tablet, as if disinterested in Bond’s barefooted plight. But fifteen minutes and two plates later, there’s a knock at the hotel room door. It puts Bond immediately on guard.

“Why don’t you answer it?” Q asks.

“Why don’t you?” Bond inquires.

It makes Q look at him again, one eyebrow slightly raised, as if in amusement.

“It’s not for me.”

That, admittedly, has Bond curious, so he gets up and goes to answer the door. There’s a courier standing there with a brown box.

“Mr. Bauer?” The man asks.

“Yes,” Bond says, and accepts the clipboard thrust at him. He signs off on the bottom line--a scribble of a name, unidentifiable--and then accepts the package. It’s only when he’s closed the door and returned to the living space that Bond asks. “Mr. Bauer?”

“One of your new cover identities. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Please do not tell me my first name is Jack.”

That has Q hiding a smile, Bond can tell, just by the way he positions the tablet in front of his mouth. It makes the corners of his mouth twitch, just slightly, for reasons he can’t explain.

“Nothing of the sort,” Q assures him. “Though you do bear a striking resemblance to Mr. Sutherland.”

“I have much better hair,” Bond says, picking up a knife from the housekeeping tray.

Q doesn’t say anything, just hums, as if in agreement, still hiding behind his tablet. Bond doesn’t say anything else, instead focussing on opening the sealed box. Inside, there is a pair of beautiful black Oxfords--classy, not Brogues, just his preference--and a pair of cashmere socks. When Bond pulls them out, he is astonished that they are his size.

“How did you--”

“I said it once before, Mr. Bond. Knowledge is not my problem,” Q says, then puts his tablet down. “Now, finish breakfast and get ready. We have work to do.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

They take the Tube instead of a car.

Bond is very aware of how odd a pair they make. Where Bond is dressed immaculately in a well-fitting suit, expensive shoes and the telephone tap box that looks like large but expensive briefcase, Q looks like a uni student in his oversized anorak and trendy thick-framed glasses. They certainly don’t look like they would have reason to know one another, which might be the reason Q is looking intently at his mobile instead of explaining to Bond exactly what they’re doing.

It’s only when they’ve departed the train that Bond asks:

“What are you doing?”

“Monitoring Ms. Hansen,” Q answers, as they weave through the crowds of people.

“You can’t possibly get service down here,” Bond says.

“I can get service anywhere.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes it feel like Bond’s missing out on the punchline of a joke. But Q doesn’t explain, and Bond has a feeling that much of this new situation will involve him being about two steps behind Q all the time.

“You’ve lived in London a while, haven’t you?” Q asks, as they make their way up the stairs. Q’s gait is stiff and a bit slow, but purposeful, and Bond follows behind him at an appropriate distance to not crowd him.

“A while,” Bond agrees.

On the landing between the two sets of stairs, Q veers to the side, slipping open a service door with practiced ease. None of the passengers seem to notice or care, in a hurry to pass them by, and Bond doesn’t see any cameras. It’s a high traffic blind spot. Dangerous, but decent in a pinch, he supposes, as he follows Q quickly through the open door.

“Have you ever heard of Granborough Road?” Q asks, as he leads Bond along a dark, curving corridor.

“Granborough Road…” Bond repeats, trying to think of where he’s heard the name before. They walk through two doors before he remembers. “It’s an old tube station on the Metropolitan line. Been closed for a few years now.”

“That’s right,” Q says, coming to a halt in front of an ancient vending machine. “It won’t be opening up any time soon, either.”

“Why? Do you own it?” Bond asks, because Q definitely has funds at his disposal. Bond’s clothes are proof enough of that, as if the lavish hotel room, expensive tech, and high class lawyer sent to get him out of jail weren’t.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Q replies, his voice amused as he searches his pockets for a quid. “It’s just in a bit of limbo right now. Perhaps some blueprints went missing, some proposals don’t make it to the appropriate desks of persons in the Department for Transport... Granborough Road doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Sort of like you?” Bond asks.

“And you, Mr. Bond,” Q says, as he deposits the pound into the slot. He pushes a series of buttons on the vending machine, and then there’s a whirring sound as a pneumatic lock disengages and swings the machine wide to reveal a doorway.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bond says, following Q through the door.

The vending machine slides closed behind him, casting them in darkness. But a moment later, Bond hears the heavy metal click of a massive switch, and the lights flicker to life. It reveals an old Tube platform with a few run-down carriages, but that is where the similarities to London’s iconic public transport end.

It’s been repurposed in a way that Bond finds strangely familiar, reminding him of the old Q-Branch at Six. The entire space is humming with electricity and the drone of fans and it’s rather cold, most likely to keep the towers of server racks from overheating. Power cords criss-cross along the floors like a web, linking all sorts of machinery to a single desk at the centre of the room. It’s topped with several computers and laptops, but also a variety of other items: books and file folders and what has to be at least a dozen abandoned mugs.

Bond says nothing about the disorder and sets the case down next to the desk. There’s a loud shriek, and Bond jumps back just in time to see a blur of ginger disappear between two server racks.

“Don’t mind the cats,” Q says offhandedly as he begins stacking things in front of Bond.

“ _Cats_?” Bond asks.

“Two of them, for pest control. Hope you’re not allergic.”

“I’m not.”

“Good, now. To business,” Q says, then points at the stacks laid out on the messy desk in front of them. “Five credit cards, passports, bank accounts. Five cover identities. Funds to be replenished through a proxy corporation. Similar to how it was when you were with MI6.”

“When I was with Six, I knew who was picking up the tab,” Bond murmurs, pointedly looking at Q.

“I understand that there’s a disparity between how much I know about you and how much you know about me. I also know that you’ll be attempting to close that gap as quickly as possible. But I should warn you ahead of time, Mr. Bond. I’m a very private person.”

Q moves away from him, round the desk to sit in front of the computers, and that’s when Bond sees them on the far wall. There are several bulletin boards propped up against the stone and brick, each covered in hundreds of photographs and newspaper clippings, all linked together by thumbtacks and twine. It’s only when Bond gets closer that he sees the numbers that run down the centre of each board, where all the strings originate before spreading out like spider webs.

“You don’t get names…you get numbers...National Insurance numbers...” Bond murmurs, putting faces to each number, scanning newspaper headlines as he does so: _murdered, stabbed, killed, beaten to death, kidnapped, missing_ , etc. These are the people Q had talked about: the ones they couldn’t save.

The ones Q couldn’t save.

“That’s correct.”

Bond turns to find Q at his elbow, but Q’s looking at the faces of the dead and not him.

“Why do you…” Bond gestures at the boards, because he can’t make the words come. Why would Q make himself look at his failures day in and day out?

“To remind me why I do what I do,” Q says, and sighs, “and why I need help to do it.”

Bond looks at Q, who rubs at his neck as if it pains him.

“You can see, Mr. Bond, that I’m not the sort of person that would do well in a physical altercation, and many of these people are threatened with that very particular form of violence,” Q says quietly. “That’s why I hope you’ll help me help them.”

“How do you even know to help them in the first place?” Bond asks.

“That’s a different story for a different day,” Q says, as he turns and makes his way back to his desk. “I know that answer is not satisfactory, but I hope that you’re compelled to help despite the lack of answers at this point.”

“What’s the catch?” Bond asks, and Q stops, turns as best as he can for someone with an apparent neck injury.

“There is no catch, Mr. Bond. You may leave at any time. I will provide you with the funds to go wherever you wish.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

The dead mobile in his suit jacket feels heavy when Bond looks at the board, at all the faces of ordinary men and women and children. He knows that he’s not good for much, but maybe he’d be good for this.

“Then let’s get started.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

They save people.

Bond’s amazed that he’s capable of doing it after so many years of killing. But he does it. People are in trouble and Bond gets them out of it. He saves Rachel Hansen from a malicious ex-lover. He prevents a man from kidnapping the children of a prestigious judge. He protects a young boy who witnessed a terrible crime.

The numbers never stop coming, and their consistency makes Bond wonder just where they come from. He spends his nights in his newly rented flat thinking about it and his off hours exercising and thinking about it some more. So he begins following Q in the times between numbers, trying to see if he can figure out just where Q’s information comes from.

That involves a lot of legwork on Bond’s part, but it soon becomes the most interesting aspect of his life. Q is such an enigma. He’s polite, but ready to boss Bond about with a sharp tongue if he deserves it. He’s kindhearted in his quest to save people, but awkward when it comes to dealing with them in person. He dresses poorly, but all of his clothes are designer label and well-cared for. He’s incredibly intelligent, but never condescending and always patient. He can be charismatic, but is often stoic and withdrawn. Bond will admit to being fascinated, because he’s never known someone quite like Q before, and he finds himself wanting to know more and more with each passing day.

So Bond follows Q wherever he can, trying to figure out exactly how the other man spends his days when they’re not chasing down criminals and saving people from becoming victims. He’s hoping he’ll find out something about Q, something personal. Where does he like to go? What does he like to eat? What does he like...in general?

All Bond knows is how he takes his tea and that Q has a sweet tooth he often indulges. And that Q is extremely wealthy, but never seems to spend any of it.

Unfortunately, Q does not make his task easy. Q’s good at avoiding a tail. Most times, Bond loses him, which is exceptional for a civilian, and--if anything--makes Bond even more intrigued. He starts resorting to even more intelligent forms of surveillance, only to get no results save for chastising text messages reminding Bond that he’s _a very private person_.

Then, one day, Bond sees Q do something odd. It’s midday, near the touristy areas by Parliament. Bond’s wearing a cap and woolen jumper in hopes that Q doesn’t notice him in the crowd. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe that’s why, when a telephone rings at one of the boxes, Q goes into the booth and answers it. He stands there for no more than thirty seconds before he’s on the move again, and then Bond loses him in a sea of faces.

With no other clue, Bond goes into the telephone booth and picks up the phone. He tries 1471 for last-call return, but the call won’t go through. Frustrated, Bond gives it up as a bad job and goes back to his flat for the day.

Bond doesn’t get to think too much on it after the fact, as he and Q spend the next two nights trying, and then succeeding, to stop a kidnapping. It’s the morning after that success, when Bond’s working on his morning exercises, that he knows what he has to do.

“We need to meet,” Bond says, and the communication device in his ear comes to life. It’s something they came up with after the Rachel Hansen case, giving Bond the opportunity to have his hands free in the case of emergency. He also knows, without a doubt, that Q will always be listening in and ready to help when needed.

“There’s a wonderful exhibition at the National Gallery,” he says, and Bond rolls his eyes a bit. It’s only been two weeks, but Bond is already getting a sense for how much Q enjoys art. “I’ll meet you in room 34.”

An hour later, Bond arrives at the National Gallery with two Styrofoam cups and makes his way to room 34. The room is practically empty, so Bond takes a seat on the bench in the centre of the room. There’s a painting on the wall, a Turner, the Master of Light. It’s vaguely familiar, but Bond can’t quite name it.

Q comes in a few moments later and sits beside him. Wordlessly, Bond holds out a cup to Q.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Q says, but politely takes it.

“I know,” Bond says, and takes a sip of his beverage. “Earl Grey, two sugars, dash of cream.”

His response earns a smile from Q, one of his small ones that curls just at the corner of his mouth, and it’s nice, Bond thinks, to see him look something other than stoic and tired.

“I knew I hired you for a reason,” Q says, but then he sobers and nods at the painting. “It’s called The Fighting Temeraire. I come and look at it from time to time when I need a clearer perspective. It’s strange to find that sort of clarity in such a painting, but it always helps somehow. Even if it always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship, being hauled ignominiously away for scrap...Inevitability of time, don’t you think? What do you see?”

“A bloody big ship,” Bond says gruffly, because he’s not sure if he’s being made fun of or not.

Q angles his body towards Bond, then tilts his head as much as he’s able to look at him. It makes Bond wonder--as he’s wondered many times since their meeting--just what had happened to cripple Q so badly.

“You’ve got questions.”

“Of course I’ve got bloody questions, Q,” Bond says.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why won't you tell me where you're getting your information?”

Q sighs, and Bond thinks he might not speak, but then, after a long time, he does.

“When the World Trade Center buildings were attacked on 11th September, 2001, I didn't even know it until the next day. I was working. One project or another, I can’t say what it was now. See, up until that day, I didn't care for much else aside from making myself rich. But after those attacks, and then the acts of terror that followed here...well, suddenly all that money didn't amount to much. To me at least.”

Bond wants to ask what that has to do with anything, but he keeps quiet. The last thing he wants to do is interrupt Q, lest he never get an answer.

“After the attacks, the United States government gave itself the power to spy on its citizens. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, in one way or another. Their NSA, the privacy acts, illegal wiretapping…”

“Of course,” Bond says.

“And you can’t imagine that it was only the United States government that gave itself this power?”

Bond stares hard at the painting on the wall. He had worked for SIS, had received intel that couldn’t have possibly been obtained without some form of privacy invasion. But he’d never questioned it. It had always been for the greater good.

Hadn’t it?

Q must see something in his expression, because he nods and continues:

“We followed suit not long after the United States. By 2002, the government could read every email, listen to every mobile phone... but they, like the Americans, needed something to sort through it all. Something to sort the terrorists out of the general population before they could act. The public wanted to be protected, but they didn't want to know _how_ they were being protected...so when the government developed a system that worked, they kept it secret.”

"So how do you know about it?”

Q looks at him, and Bond is struck by how young he looks. There’s something in his eyes, something afraid, something ashamed, but the words that come next are the most confident Bond’s ever heard:

"I built it.”

The three words raise the hairs on the back of Bond’s neck.

“But there was a problem with this machine. I had built it to prevent the next major act of terror, but it was seeing all sorts of crimes. So I had to teach the machine to divide them into two lists: relevant and irrelevant. Events that would cause massive loss of life were relevant and would be passed along to the proper office.”

“And the irrelevant?”

“Every night at midnight, the list is erased.”

“Erased?”

Q gives a short nod.

“It was only after that I realised my mistake. That irrelevant list was... eating away at me,” Q says, but something about the way he says it falls flat, like it’s untrue.

“Where is the machine now?”

“The drives? I haven’t any idea. A government facility somewhere most likely. But the Machine? The Machine is everywhere. Watching with ten thousand eyes, listening with a million ears. Almost every interface in every office building, every home. That is the Machine.”

“But you gave yourself a way to communicate with it,” Bond says.

“Of course. I was creating a tool of immeasurable power. I thought maybe an off switch might come in handy. So I built a backdoor into it.”

“To access the irrelevant list,” Bond says, not asks.

“Not the entire list. Just a National Insurance number. Anything more and I could lose access to it. So those digits...that's all we get.”

Bond looks at the painting.

“Why me?”

“You asked me that before.”

“Yes, but _why_?” Bond asks.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, Bond. We have more in common than you might think,” Q answers, and he’s smiling that small smile again. “Everyone thinks we’re both dead, for starters.”

Bond frowns, looking down at his hands.

“You said you programmed the Machine to delete those irrelevant numbers, but now you’re trying to save them. What changed your mind?”

Q’s quiet, and Bond is afraid he might not answer, that the question had been too invasive for such a _private person_ , but then Q murmurs:

“Let’s just say you’re not the only one who has lost someone.”

They’re silent for a moment, but then Q slowly stands up

“I said it before, that if you want to leave, I’ll give you whatever you need to disappear,” Q says.

“And if I stay?”

“Well, sooner or later, both of us will probably end up dead, and I mean actually dead this time.”

“Very persuasive, Q.”

“I said I’d tell you the truth. I never said you’d like it.” 

**00Q00Q00Q**

The weeks turn into months, but time passes quickly instead of crawling, and before Bond knows it, it’s almost been a year since he and Q met.

It’s been so long since he’s felt so alive. There’s a thrill to this new life that his old one never had, and now when Bond wakes each morning, it is with eagerness instead of dread. He has a purpose again, but he’s no longer a blunt instrument to be used and discarded at will. This time, he has a partnership--a true partnership--that gives Bond the one thing he had always been missing. It is more than a purpose, more than being of worth, more than feeling useful again.

Bond might be so bold as to call it _happiness_.

And how could it not be? He and Q save people from horrible fates, give them their _lives back_ , restore balance to the fucked up universe by taking some of the bad out of the equation. And with each passing day, Bond feels less like a monster and more like a person. He’s capable of good things, of something other than killing and causing pain, and it’s earned him a bit of a reputation. They call him The Man in the Suit: the mysterious do-gooder that’s got all of London talking, and it makes Bond grin every time he hears it, especially since they’ve got Eve Moneypenny on the case trying to hunt him down for questioning.

“When you smile, it’s rather alarming,” Q tells him.

“It’s a nice day,” Bond says, taking the stairs briskly. He has Q’s tea in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other. “You would know if you got out more.”

“Going out is for boring people,” Q says, but he does look up from his screens when Bond hands over the goodies.

“Then you should love it. You’re the most boring person I know,” Bond says, as he goes to sit in his chair near their makeshift armoury.

Q makes an exasperated face, but doesn’t say anything right away, tucking into the sweet chocolate pastry Bond had purchased especially for him. It’s only a moment later that Q retorts with:

“I am not boring.”

“You never do anything fun.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“I have fun.”

“Cleaning your firearms and going to the gym do not count as _fun_ ,” Q says, gaze drawn back to his monitors.

Bond watches as he licks the chocolate off his fingers, one by one. Q really does have lovely hands, and it’s most certainly not the first time Bond’s thought this.

He kept telling himself his attraction was misplaced, that he’d mistaken gratitude for romantic interest. But then Bond would notice something like Q’s eyelashes or his cheekbones or the curve of his lips and then he’d think on how much he loved Q’s acerbic wit and blinding intelligence and the way he’d smile, just so, when something pleased him. And just like that, he’d be in love again.

It’s unconventional, Bond knows. Not only is Q his employer, but Bond barely knows anything about him. How could he possibly love someone without _knowing_ them? But then he realises that for all of Q’s secrets, he’s the most honest person Bond knows.

And that means everything in their line of work, when the next number could be their last.

So Bond decides he’s going to take a risk, a huge one, at that. He stands, then goes over to the desk, where he leans on the back of Q’s chair in the way he knows aggravates Q the most.

“Let’s get dinner tonight,” Bond says.

Q swats at him to get off the back of his chair, so Bond moves round to Q’s left and leans against the edge of the desk.

“You’re blocking my view,” Q says.

“You have to answer me first,” Bond replies, and Q looks put-upon for no reason.

“Chinese or Indian? There’s a takeaway special at Aab India on Thursdays.”

“You’re the cheapest rich man I’ve ever met…”

“That’s why I’m still rich, Bond.”

“Forget the takeaway. I meant dinner. Real dinner. At a restaurant. In public.”

Q makes a face.

“Sounds dreadful.”

“You’re going. Wear something nice,” Bond says.

“I always look nice.”

“You look a step away from homeless. And I should know that better than anyone.”

Q opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it and scowls.

“Don’t you have work to do?” Q asks.

“Do we have a number?”

Q’s frown gets deeper, making Bond’s grin all the wider.

“So, 7pm? I’ll text you the details.”

“Fine.”

“It’s a date,” Bond says, and winks at Q, who rolls his eyes.

“Get out of my sight.”

The words are intended to be harsh, but they come out soft and somewhat fond, and Bond not sure if he imagines it, but right before he leaves, he swears he sees Q smiling.

**00Q00Q00Q**

They meet at the restaurant that evening, and Bond can’t help but stare in amazement when Q steps out of his taxi to meet him. Q looks _stunning_  in clothes tailored to fit him and colours that complement his complexion.

“I do have a tailor,” Q explains, as they’re seated at a private table.

“You could have fooled me,” Bond says.

“Some of my cover identities require it,” is all Q says.

He looks nervous, so Bond orders some champagne.

“What are we celebrating?” Q asks.

“Our anniversary,” Bond says.

Q flushes slightly, and Bond thinks the colour looks fetching on him.

“We’ve been working together for almost a year now,” Bond explains, as the server brings a bottle and ice bucket to their table.

Their flutes are filled, but Bond waits until they are alone before he continues:

“We’ve saved a lot of people.”

“You did,” Q says, and smiles in that way that Bond adores. “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Bond says. “In a way, you saved me too.”

Q looks uncomfortable at the praise, but allows Bond to tip their glasses together in a toast.

“To another year?” Bond says.

“To another year,” Q agrees.

They have dinner and more drinks, share a conversation that’s surprisingly intimate. Q doesn’t reveal much about his past, but he does offer a little more of himself than before, so Bond responds in kind. He tells stories that would never have been in his files, the more entertaining ones when he was in school and in the Navy. It’s after one of these tales that Bond sees Q laugh for the first time, and it’s nothing short of magnificent to see him that way, so carefree and _normal_ , as if he doesn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And maybe that’s why Bond kisses him that night.

They’re outside Q’s flat and just saying goodnight when Bond gathers the nerve. He has no idea of Q’s sexual preference, if he even has one, but it feels right in that moment. He’s quick about it so not to hurt Q’s injury, but he puts as much meaning into it that he can. For the first time in a long time, he’s thinking about the future, no longer about the old mobile locked in the bottom desk drawer at his flat. He’s not haunted by her anymore, by his past, what he’s done. All Bond’s thinking about is how much he wants to taste the creme brulee on Q’s lips, to hear the way Q gasps for breath in the dark, to feel the tips of his beautiful fingers digging into his shoulders.

When he pulls away, Q’s expression is half-hidden in the dark corridor, but what Bond can see of it is somewhat frightened.

“Why did you do that?” Q asks.

“I thought...the reason would be obvious.”

Q touches his lips.

“Oh,” he says, and Bond immediately feels like a fool.

“I’m sorry,” Bond says, “it was, wrong of me. I’m sorry. I’ll. See you tomorrow.”

Bond turns for the lift, but Q catches his arm before he can make it a few steps.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s okay, Q, you don’t have to,” Bond tells him, and gently removes Q’s hand from his elbow.

But Q grasps him again before he can leave.

“I-I want to.”

Bond turns round slowly, hopefully, and Q’s standing there looking frightfully young and vulnerable and _afraid_.

“Um,” Q begins nervously. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Bond says, follows Q into the flat.

It’s a safe house, that much is obvious. It’s tastefully decorated, but there’s no personal effects that Bond can see right away save for a laptop computer on the dining room table. Bond has a seat on the sofa and waits as Q bangs around in the kitchen for a while. Five minutes later, he emerges with coffee for Bond and tea for himself.

They drink quietly for a moment. Bond watches as Q watches him over the rim of his cup anxiously, as if trying to think of what to say. And he waits, because the ball is in Q’s court now.

“I…apologise for how I acted before,” Q says, putting his mug on the coffee table. Bond follows suit, waiting for Q to continue. “It’s... well, it’s been a long time, for me.”

“For me, too,” Bond says.

“But, that is, I mean.” Q fumbles for words in a way that he never does, but Bond understands why when Q touches the back of his neck nervously.

“Since you were injured.”

Q flinches, and Bond sees his expression closing off. Before he can pull away entirely, Bond reaches for his hand.

“You know it doesn’t bother me,” Bond says.

“It bothers me,” Q says, with an undercurrent of anger.

Bond scoots closer, slow and open with his movements so that Q knows exactly what he is going to do. Q doesn’t move away from him, but rather, leans into him so that Bond can kiss him. He’s gentle, because the moment is so fragile, and it must be just what Q needs, because Bond feels him begin to relax.

“I know,” Bond answers, when he pulls back, “but it doesn’t make me want you any less.”

Q averts his eyes.

“I can’t…” he breathes, then tries again. “There are some things I can’t do anymore.”

“That’s okay. We’re very creative people.”

That earns a little smile, and Bond feels closer to Q now more than ever before.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Bond says.

“I want to do everything,” Q says, and his cheeks are so lovely flushed red, “with you.”

Bond smiles and takes Q’s hand.

“Then let’s get started.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

They undress one another in the bedroomn, Bond helping remove some of his own garments when he senses Q’s range of motion won’t allow him to. When they’re naked, Q tries to hide himself from Bond, tries to turn out the lights, but Bond won’t have it.

He leads Q to the bed where they lay, side by side in the golden light from the bedside lamp. Bond makes sure that Q’s comfortable in his position, then takes Q’s hands and puts them on his scars, having Q trace them with his fingers. He whispers city names from around the globe as he moves Q’s fingers along the network of scars

“They did such terrible things to you,” Q says, when Bond ends with the puckered flesh in his right shoulder.

“But they’re a part of me,” Bond says. “I’m who I am because of them.”

“The scars don’t make you,” Q says, and Bond feels his breath get caught in his throat, because those words--those _beautiful_ words--are what he should be saying to Q. “You make you. You and no one else.”

“Except you,” Bond says. “There was nothing for me until I met you. You helped me become the person I’ve always wanted to be.”

Q smiles and kisses him. There’s something sweet, yet passionate about it, something meaningful, something _new_ that Bond had never experienced before. Is this what it felt like to be loved?

They kiss for some time, enjoying the feeling of coming together after so long, learning one another without the barriers of clothing and proprietary all standing in the way.

It’s only after, when Bond is pressed against Q from behind, that he sees the damage Q had been trying to hide. The scars on Q’s back are terrible, alternating gouges of missing flesh and raised skin of thick scar tissue. Bond’s no fool. He knows shrapnel when he sees it. But how? When?

Q must sense him looking, because he makes to get up out of bed, but Bond pulls him back.

“Does it hurt? When I do this?” Bond asks, kissing his way along the raised surgical scars on Q’s neck. Q trembles under his touch, but in the way that proves to Bond he feels anything but pain.

“You don’t have to do that,” Q murmurs.

“Oh, but I do,” Bond says, tracing his tongue along the shell of Q’s ear. “I bet I can make you come without even touching you.”

It takes some time for Q to get over his embarrassment, but Bond eventually makes good on his promise.

“I can’t believe… you made something like that feel good…” Q breathes, as Bond cleans them both with a damp flannel.

“I can make almost anything feel good,” Bond says, kissing at Q’s shoulder. “And that’s a promise.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, so you’ll have to have me over again at least six more times.”

Q laughs and tosses a pillow at Bond.

“You’re so full of it.”

“I’m not the one who got off twice tonight.”

Another pillow is aimed at Bond’s head, but he dodges out of the way.

“Shut up or get out,” Q says, and Bond immediately returns the flannel to the bathroom, picks up the pillows on the way back, and crawls into bed. “So obedient.”

“Do you like that?” Bond asks, grinning.

“You’re incorrigible,” Q grumbles, “now help me get comfortable.”

Bond arranges the pillows to Q’s specifications, then turns out the light and snuggles up to him in the dark. But Bond’s not ready to sleep just yet, so he presses his lips to Q’s clavicle and asks:

“If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?”

“It depends on the question,” Q says.

Bond thinks, then asks:

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“You’re wasting your question on my favourite colour?”

“It’s important.”

Q lets out a long-suffering sigh. Then he’s quiet for a moment, and Bond fears he might have dropped off to sleep, but then Q says:

“Blue.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes. That’s why I love your eyes.”

“You’re either romantic...or a good liar.”

“And you’ll never know.”

Bond frowns.

“You know, this tall, dark, and mysterious thing is getting kind of old.”

Q laughs.

“Goodnight, James.”

Bond feels something warm in his chest at the use of his first name. He wishes he could reciprocate, but all he can do is twine his fingers with Q’s and hold onto him in the dark.

“Goodnight, Q.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

They continue to save people, and now, in their off hours, they spend more time together than apart. Bond still doesn’t know Q’s name or where he lives or just how he acquired his injuries, but he does know what Q’s favourite colour is (it actually is blue, like Bond’s eyes, how poetic), and how he likes his eggs (sunny side up), and that he has a love of books that rivals anyone Bond’s ever met. Sometimes they argue about military history or poetry or about where Bond keeps his guns (Q insists it’s uncivilised to have them on the bed when they’re shagging) but most of the time, they continue on as they always had. There’s just a few more kisses in between.

It’s nearing spring and the days are all wet and dreary. It must be keeping the criminals inside, because they haven’t had a number in days. Still, Q insists that they go to Granborough Road to prepare for their next case, and to feed the cats. It’s how Bond ends up lazing about for hours while Q works on one thing or another.

It’s during the quiet that Bond decides to bring up something that he’s been wondering for a while.

"What's the obsession?" Bond asks.

"With what, Bond?"

Bond taps at the sticker on Q's laptop. He irritably swats Bond away from his machine, and Bond retaliates by kissing him before dashing out of his range.

"Pi," Bond says, and Q stops typing and gives Bond his full attention. "You've got the symbol everywhere."

He’s not even kidding. It’s on all of Q’s laptops, his tablet, his mobile phone, all of his server racks.

"Do you know what Pi represents?" Q asks, and he's got that tone in his voice that tells Bond he's about to explain something complicated.

"The ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter," Bond answers, because he's no idiot. Q gives him a smile that tells him he's done well, but there's something in his eyes that says there's more that Bond's missing. So Bond finds a comfortable seat and puts his feet up on the desk, waiting for Q's inevitable lesson.

"You're right, of course," Q says, "but that's only the beginning. See, pi keeps on going forever, without ever repeating. That string of decimals contains every single other number. Your birth date, your national identification number, it's all in there, somewhere. And if you convert these decimals into letters, you would have every word that ever existed in every possible combination. It's contains your entire life story from beginning to end; everything we ever say or will ever do; all of the world's infinite possibilities rest within a single circle."

Q tilts his head and smiles.

"You asked me once why I chose you. Why I chose the man who believed himself no longer of worth to the world. But the thing about the world is that it doesn't have an extra pieces. It's like pi: in contains everything. You remove a single piece, there's no circle. So that's why I chose you, and that's why we do what we do now for the numbers. No missing pieces.”

Bond's overwhelmed, in that brief moment, at the enormity of what they are doing, how they are impacting the world.

"I know I’ve asked before, but...why do you do it?" Bond asks, and when Q looks at him with a curious expression, Bond elaborates: "The numbers. I know you said that they started to eat away at you...I know that you’ve heard people die and it’s difficult...but there’s more to the story, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me again?"

"Would it make any difference if I were to remind you that--”

"You’re a _very private person_ , I know," Bond says. "I just… I’m in this for the long haul, you know. You and me. And the numbers. I guess I just… want to know."

Q takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes before putting them back on.

"It's funny, because I asked someone that question once myself," Q replies, and he's got this look that seems contemplative, pensive, the sort of look that he has when he's thinking about life and death and the numbers that never stop coming. Bond knows better not to interrupt, not to ask before Q is ready to speak. "I suppose the answer is very simple: there are no irrelevant numbers. Everyone is relevant to someone."

Bond smiles.

He likes the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to watch [wyomingnot's fantastic video](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8005900) that so inspired me!
> 
> Also, you can follow me on Tumblr!  
> Cheers,  
> [Dhampir72](http://dhampir72.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ratios and Relevance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005900) by [wyomingnot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyomingnot/pseuds/wyomingnot)




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